


The Fundamental Things

by kathryne



Series: The Past Forty Years [7]
Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Birthday Sex, Established Relationship, F/F, Future Fic, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 09:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathryne/pseuds/kathryne
Summary: Grace hates birthdays.*In which there is pre-series angst, yes, but also some post-s3 compensation.





	The Fundamental Things

**Author's Note:**

> It is my birthday, and I decided what I really wanted was to write a lovely self-indulgent story about my fellow Scorpio, Grace Hanson. I hope you enjoy it as well. Feedback is the best birthday present a gal could ask for. :)

Grace hates birthdays. Her birthdays, that is. Having an excuse to spoil the people she cares about is one thing. Having to face the unsubtle reminder of her own inevitable mortality, reckoning with where she thought she’d be at a given point in her life... she does the mental math every year and always seems to come up short.

It’s not just about her age, either. The girls started tiptoeing around the subject following Grace’s sixty-fifth, when an unexpected hot flash combined with an unwisely displayed AARP magazine meant she spent the day after her birthday in bed, hungover and brittle. Grace prefers the subsequent lack of fuss, so she hasn’t corrected them. But the milestones she passed when she was younger hit her just as hard.

Twenty-one was a party, like it ought to be: surrounded by her Phi Sigma society sisters, just after mid-semester exams, exhilarated and excited by the future in front of her. It was the last time she truly felt like celebrating. The next year, newly returned to Connecticut from Wellesley, she was proud both of her degree and of her job managing the beauty counter in Macy’s. Yet when her parents joined her in Hartford for a birthday dinner, it was less her achievements and more her inability to meet the right man that concerned them. “We just want to know you’ll have someone to take care of you,” her father said, patting her hand, while her mother glanced disparagingly at the neckline of her dress and the contents of her plate and asked how she ever expected to meet anyone if she spent all her time with her roommate and the other women in her department, and by the way, darling, are you sure you’re eating properly? And she smiled, and said “Yes, Mother,” and “Of course, Daddy,” and when they dropped her off at her small apartment the muscles of her face actually hurt. She didn’t invite them in.

Inside, Chubb waited up for her, the careful order of their little lounge disturbed by a scatter of nail polishes and tissue. She’d chopped the feet off a ruined pair of stockings so she could paint her toes without baring her legs to the November chill, and the sleek silk under her ragged flannel housecoat never failed to make Grace laugh. Tonight, the best she could manage was a tired giggle. Chubb waved one slender leg in the air to dry the wet polish and smiled knowingly at Grace. “That good, huh,” she asked, her midwestern accent making the statement even blunter.

“Oh, well,” Grace said, turning away to hang up her coat. “No, it was... nice.”

“Sure it was.” Chubb pointed with her red-tipped toes at the kitchen. “Made you something, Gracie.”

Grace peeped over the counter and saw a dozen pink-frosted vanilla cupcakes laid out on their fanciest plate. Her stomach clenched, half hunger, half horror. What dinner she’d managed to eat sat in a heavy lump. She should make her excuses, hang up her dress, make herself more comfortable. Instead she slumped onto the sofa next to Chubb. “They look lovely,” she said, meaning it but too exhausted to smile. 

Chubb glanced at her sidelong. “We can take ‘em in for the girls tomorrow,” she said without judgement. “And then we’ll take you out to Joe’s after our shifts, get a few of those cocktails with fancy pink umbrellas, have some fun. Hey?”

Grace hadn’t had a real drink since her graduation party. Recapturing that relaxed camaraderie suddenly sounded like the best birthday gift she could ask for. “That’d be keen,” she said, squeezing Chubb’s arm in thanks. She tipped her head back, letting her eyes drift closed. She’d get up in a minute.

For a few years, her life in Hartford was easy to manage. Grace worked and loved it, dated and didn’t, saw her sister follow her to Wellesley and her brother manage to graduate from Penn. She and Chubb spent days working in the cash office and nights laughing in Joe’s or their apartment. It wasn't what she’d been raised to expect - wasn’t where she’d seen herself - but whatever was missing she didn’t have words to name. And then in 1968, a few months before Grace’s twenty-fifth, everything changed. Grace’s sister started planning to move to Hartford after graduation. Chubb got serious with a man from the furniture counter. Head Office offered Grace a chance to move across the country and lead a larger department in San Diego.

The Summer of Love had made headlines but few waves in Hartford, which remained as staid and upright as ever; though Grace knew generally that San Diego was no San Francisco, still California sounded like a kind of freedom, an acceptable escape from her mother’s increasingly strident comments about old-maid-ishness. She took the job, celebrated a quarter of a century with a bottle of local wine, sweating in an unseasonable heat wave while her cards from home complained of cold and early snow. In the new year, she met Robert. 

He gave her a way to dodge her parents’ worries, a reason to explore her new city, and, after a few years, he gave her a ring. They married that August; her mother embraced her at the reception, crying after three glasses of champagne, whispered in her ear not congratulations or advice but “I prayed for this so you wouldn’t be alone at thirty.” 

And yet when the day came, she was alone. Robert called the evening of her birthday, stuck at the office but full of apologies and promises. Grace put her hair up and her fancy dress on and went solo to the small dinner party they’d planned anyway. She let their friends’ husbands top up her wine glass a few too many times; when Robert got home she was sick in bed, and they both spent the next day miserable, a type of desperate, disconnected misery she thought she’d left behind on the other side of the country.

Oddly, her life seemed to fall into order after that. It became something she recognised. Robert apologised, bearing jewellery, and she let him fit the too-expensive bracelet around her wrist and kiss her, their reconciliation following the well-worn route of predictability. They ticked off achievements together. Robert worked enough that he never seemed to resent her own job taking her away. He didn’t complain about heating up a lonely dinner himself some nights, as she moved up the management ladder and had occasional evening responsibilities of her own. He hoped for a son, but as she reached forty with a toddler at her heels and an infant in her arms, he didn’t suggest trying again. It should, she thought, be enough for anyone.

When she turned fifty, Robert left her alone again. This time he gave her solitude as a gift, taking the girls away for the weekend so she could have some space. He didn’t know her booking at the spa included a face lift rather than a face mask. It wasn’t much - very small, very subtle, insurance against the future more than making up for the ravages of the past - but she had started planning for Say Grace, and all of her most hopeful projections relied on charm and her ability to embody the ideal she was promising. More, it made her feel in control. She couldn’t put it into words, not then, but she'd been feeling unmoored. Making a choice that was just hers helped stabilise her. 

Robert and the girls returned from their trip dusty and sweaty. Brianna gave her a quick hug, too much the quintessential teenage girl to do anything as uncool as miss her mother. Mallory threw herself into Grace’s arms; Grace had to swallow a hiss of pain. “Did you have a nice time?” she asked, thumbing a streak of dirt off Mallory’s cheekbone. 

“Dad set the chili on fire,” Mallory blurted, and Grace looked over her head at Robert, who shrugged. 

“Campfires aren't my strong suit,” he said. “So you see, we missed you.”

“Around the campfire.” Grace rolled her eyes. She patted Mallory on the shoulder. “Go get cleaned up,” she said, adding “sweetie” before Mallory was out of hearing. As she ran off, Grace reached out to take Robert’s bag. “And did you have a nice time, too, despite the chili?”

He chuckled. “I think I’m full up on outdoorsiness for the next decade, but yes. And you? Are you...” He gestured awkwardly. “Relaxed?”

“Oh, uh.” It wasn’t the word she would have chosen, but she smiled nevertheless. “Very much. Thank you.” She leaned in to kiss Robert’s cheek, and though she moved stiffly, she knew he wouldn't notice. 

Once Say Grace was established, it was easier to let it subsume Grace’s own milestones. She celebrated not her sixtieth but ten years of the company, and that was all right: it felt like something to be proud of. And after the divorce, well. For a while she had an even simpler excuse to let the time slip by unremarked.

Of course, her life now is better, fuller, _brighter_ than she could ever have imagined. Loving Frankie - being loved by Frankie - makes her happy; it’s a joyous surprise every day, new and unexpected all over again. But her seventy-fifth has been looming. She’s dodged everyone’s well-meaning questions and made it clear that she doesn’t expect anything. She doesn’t want to. That doesn’t quiet her nerves.

The morning of, she wakes alone. It’s not entirely unusual. Frankie stays in her studio sometimes still, if she’s working on a painting. But Grace is sure they went to sleep together last night, Frankie wrapped around her like a limpet, solid and warm and comforting. And now she’s alone.

Alone, she washes and dresses, one ear cocked for the sound of Frankie’s presence. There’s nothing until she pauses at the top of the stairs, listening. In the kitchen, Frankie clatters dishes, humming tunelessly, and Grace sighs, relieved. 

Even though Frankie’s been awake for more than five minutes, the kitchen is still clean. Grace watches as Frankie tucks the cutting board back in a drawer - the right drawer, in fact - and dries her hands on her flowing blue skirt before looking for anything else out of place. “Special occasion?” Grace asks drily, and Frankie spins around with a grin.

“Morning, honey,” she says, practically skipping across the room to tug Grace close and kiss her. Grace sighs into the kiss, but Frankie pulls away before it can deepen. “Sit, sit!” She pats the back of one of the chairs, hits the button to start the coffeemaker, and darts over to the fridge in a smooth series of movements. When she turns back, she’s got two bowls in her hands, which she thumps onto the table in front of their seats. 

Grace looks into hers. Nothing fancy: low-fat yogurt, sliced strawberries and apples, and a scattering of flax seed. Basically what she eats every morning, and tries to convince Frankie of the virtues of. She glances at Frankie’s bowl, only to see it’s full of the same. Not a sneaky tater tot or a forbidden froot loop in sight. She swallows against an unexpected tightness in her throat.

“Oh, and these are for you,” Frankie says, settling a vase full of flowers on the island. Fresh flowers, ones she bought herself rather than waiting to steal a bouquet Grace brought home. She smiles, touches Grace’s cheek, sets a coffee cup in front of her and slides into the seat next to her. Grace fiddles with her spoon, but she can’t seem to eat.

“Grace?” Frankie lays a hand over hers. “Everything okay?” She waits patiently for Grace to tell her what she needs.

Grace has to clear her throat. “Oh, Frankie.” She swallows again. “You don’t... you know you don’t have to do any of this, right?” She means it; she would have been perfectly happy to come down to make her own breakfast or find Frankie’s godforsaken essential oils all over the counter, but this solicitousness feels fragile and breakable.

Frankie's gaze softens and she strokes the back of Grace’s hand. “I know, Grace,” she says. “I want to.”

“Really?” Grace sounds weak even to her own ears. “But - really?”

Frankie doesn’t get angry at Grace’s questioning. “Yeah,” she says, her gaze still gentle. “Really.” She turns Grace’s hand over and raises it to her mouth, planting a tender kiss in Grace’s palm. Grace gasps, and Frankie smiles against her skin. “I’m pretty happy to have you around, you know.”

“I - “ Grace says, then stops, undone by the sincerity in Frankie’s voice. She feels heat rise in her cheeks. Frankie sees it, too, and her smile turns into a smirk. She pulls Grace to her, not hard, but inexorable, and Grace has to slide out of her chair, stand, take the single step that crosses the gulf between them.

Frankie lets go of Grace’s hand to take her waist, drawing her closer until she’s standing between Frankie’s knees, legs pressing against the taut fabric of her skirt. She rests her palms on Frankie’s shoulders to keep her balance. “I like doing nice things for you,” Frankie says. She’s like this sometimes, direct and clear, and Grace is learning to take her at face value rather than mine her words for hidden meanings. “I like it when you let me.” She runs her hands up below Grace’s thin cotton shirt. Her thumbs drift above Grace’s waistband and press into her skin, hot and firm. 

Grace sways forward. Frankie steadies her. 

“Okay?” Frankie says, looking up. Her eyes are clear and blue and honest. Grace wants, she wants, but it’s not until Frankie’s fingers tighten that she gives in and leans down.

It’s not even nine in the morning. Grace is seventy-five years old now. But Frankie’s lips under hers eclipse all that. She closes her eyes against the bright sun streaming into their kitchen and opens herself to Frankie’s touch.

“You like it too, don’t you,” Frankie says, pulling back to take a breath, and there’s something different in her voice. “Letting me be nice to you.” She slides her hands up further till they span the width of Grace’s lower back. Grace hisses at the feel of them on her bare skin, and Frankie strokes her thumbs slowly up and down along Grace’s sides, too firmly to tickle. “Don’t you?” she asks again. Grace is lost in the face of Frankie’s determination.

“Yes, I - _Frankie_ \- ” Grace breaks off as Frankie pushes Grace’s shirt up, baring her stomach, and leans in to press a kiss just above her navel. “We are _in the kitchen_ ,” Grace hisses. She braces herself against the island behind her, unintentionally giving Frankie more room to move.

“Sure, I know,” Frankie says, unconcerned. She shoves Grace’s shirt up higher, above her breasts. Her eyes light up at the sight of Grace’s lacy white bra - but then, they always do, no matter what Grace is wearing. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna whip out the chocolate syrup. That shit stains like a motherfucker. And I just wanna take a minute to be nice to you.” She stretches up with a grunt and gets her mouth on Grace’s breast. 

Grace whines, arching forward. Frankie’s tongue strokes her nipple through the lace. The rough rasp of fabric against her skin and the wet heat of Frankie’s mouth make her knees weak. She’s catapulted into desire with a suddenness she should find startling. But Frankie’s there, grounding her.

“Hey, now,” Frankie says. Just her breath across Grace’s sensitised skin makes Grace shudder. She turns her attention to Grace’s other breast, pulls the lace away with her teeth, lets it snap back and bites at the soft inside curve. Grace gasps and wobbles. Frankie pushes her chair back and stands up, crowding Grace against the island, steadying her. She smiles that determined smile of hers and pulls Grace’s shirt right off. “God, you’re pretty,” she whispers, but she’s not even looking at Grace, not really. She’s got her mouth pressed against the curve of Grace’s neck, soft and promising as she breathes in the scent of Grace’s perfume. 

Grace feels her already-flushed face heat further, feels the warmth crawl across her chest, her shoulders, and Frankie sighs and kisses her where the wing of her collarbone juts against her skin. She cups Grace’s breasts, thumbs scraping across wet lace. “Please,” Grace says without meaning to. The act of asking makes a throb of arousal pulse between her legs. She knows Frankie's going to say yes. “Oh, please.”

Frankie hums, her sound of satisfaction travelling over Grace’s skin like a touch. She pinches Grace’s nipples, shocking a hungry noise out of her, then soothes them again with slow circles of her thumbs. “Please what?” she asks mischievously.

Grace huffs, half laughter, half frustration. Finally, finally, she peels a hand away from the edge of the island and lets herself bury it in Frankie’s hair, tugging until Frankie pulls back enough they can look each other in the eyes. Grace makes her gaze as needy as possible and lowers her voice till it rumbles through them both like a promise. “Please, Frankie,” she says, all but fluttering her eyelashes. “Please take me upstairs and... be _nice_ to me.” God. Her breath catches just at the thought.

“Grace, sweetheart.” Frankie surges in, kissing her hard. But just as Grace is starting to truly melt, just as she’s tightening her grip on Frankie’s head to keep her close, Frankie breaks the kiss. They’re both panting; Grace is pressing into the island so hard she can feel the line of the countertop imprinting itself in her flesh. Her heart is pounding; the blood is roaring through her veins; her pulse echoes in her clit. When Frankie speaks, all that drops away, leaving Grace cold and empty. “No, I don’t think so,” Frankie says, and everything stops.

“Wh-what?” Grace forces out. She can’t move to unclench her fingers; Frankie’s thick wiry hair in her fist seems unreal.

“I said no,” Frankie repeats. “We’re not going upstairs.” She leans her forehead against Grace’s shoulder, then turns to kiss her jawline. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

Before Grace can process that, she feels Frankie’s hands trail down over her belly. A flick of the wrist and Frankie’s unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans; they sag low on her hips and Frankie traces a line across the lace top of Grace’s underwear. “What,” Grace says again, “oh, what - ” What if one of the kids comes by, or Robert, or Sol? What does Frankie think this is, a porno, _Geriatric Grannies Gone Wild_? Frankie’s touch is maddening, and Grace’s hips twitch into it. What the hell is she waiting for?

“Well, fuck, Grace,” Frankie says, laughing softly. Her fingers stroke, back and forth. Grace blinks, forces her eyes to focus; Frankie’s looking down, watching herself touch Grace, watching Grace rise to meet her. “I think I want you more every damn day,” she confesses, as if hypnotized by her own slow movements. “You can’t even help it, can you? With your lacy underthings and your flowery perfume and your tight jeans. You just can’t stop being - ” She interrupts herself by kissing Grace again. Her teeth sink into Grace’s lower lip as she slides her hand down further, cupping Grace through her panties. 

Grace flails, grabbing frantically. She clutches at Frankie’s hair, her shoulder, the baggy linen of her blouse, careless of wrinkles. Frankie’s hand presses lace and cotton against her, but it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. “Ah - God - Frankie, I need - ” she stutters, trying to pull Frankie even closer. 

“I know, honey.” Frankie’s fingers press and circle. The cotton is rough against Grace’s clit; she rocks forward, then pulls back. Frankie gentles her touch. “Are you wet for me, Grace?” she asks, and Grace cries out at that, cheeks flaming at the evidence of her own need. “You _are_ ,” Frankie says, delighted. She reaches her fingers back, straining against the tight fabric of Grace’s jeans. “Oh, Grace, I can feel it.” With so little space to manoeuvre, she’s restricted to short, brief movements. Grace whines in frustration, trying to grind down into Frankie’s touch.

“Frankie, more,” she says, “please,” and Frankie grins and kisses her again and again.

“Never thought these jeans of yours would piss me off,” she says, taking a moment to grope Grace’s ass, pulling her against Frankie’s leg. “You know how damn hot they are?”

“I’ll wear them every day,” Grace promises desperately, “just touch me, Frankie, oh Jesus.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Grace Hanson. Heard and witnessed,” Frankie says.

Grace’s head shoots up, her arousal dimming just enough. “By _whom_?” she snaps.

“Our domestic spirits,” Frankie says serenely. “They pay attention, Grace, but don’t worry, they’re no blabbermouths.” She distracts Grace neatly from any follow-up questions by finally tugging her jeans down another few inches. Her fingers find Grace again, this time inside her underwear. It’s almost too much. Grace moans helplessly into Frankie’s shoulder.

Grace is slick under Frankie’s fingers, but not quite slick enough. Frankie strokes her slowly, circling her clit, but she can’t maintain a good rhythm. Grace whimpers, shifting her hips, chasing the right sensation.

“The lube,” Frankie says, looking towards the fridge.

“No!” Grace tightens her grip, holding Frankie against her. If Frankie moves - if she leaves Grace bare to the rest of the room, the world - then they might as well just give up. She can’t face reality like that, not right now, not without Frankie to shield her. “No, I need you - I just...” She chokes back a groan.

“Okay, honey, it’s okay, I gotcha,” Frankie says softly. She tugs her fingers out of Grace’s panties and brings them up to Grace’s mouth. “Make it good, baby,” she says, and Grace parts her lips. Frankie slips her fingers in.

Grace doesn’t much care for her own taste, but on Frankie, somehow it’s exciting. She runs her teeth over the pads of Frankie’s fingertips, the callouses where she holds her paintbrush, the lines of her knuckles. She teases, flicking her tongue between Frankie’s fingers. She sucks - lightly at first, until Frankie gasps, and then Grace does it again, harder, watching Frankie stare at her mouth.

“Holy hell, Grace,” Frankie says hoarsely. “You’re amazing. I - damn, I love you so much.” She pulls her fingers, wet and ready, from Grace’s mouth, tracing the curve of her bottom lip. When she reaches back into Grace’s panties, it’s perfect. 

Grace lets go of the countertop and puts her hand over Frankie’s, encircling her wrist, feeling her muscles move as she rubs. “Oh, God, Frankie - there, I - please!” She can’t spread her legs any wider. The struggle just drives her higher. She tightens her grip on Frankie’s shoulder and lets her head drop back. “There,” she demands, “don’t _stop_ ,” and Frankie listens, holds her, says “Yeah, Grace, it’s okay, it’s okay, I know you wanna,” until it’s all finally, wonderfully, perfectly too much.

Grace comes with a shriek, wordless, undone, her whole body stiff and trembling in Frankie’s arms for a long electric moment. Frankie keeps moving, her touch gentle but insistent, and Grace gasps and shakes through a series of aftershocks, each one taking her by surprise. “Frankie - oh, fuck, Frankie,” she chants, leaning forward, whimpering into Frankie’s shoulder. Frankie holds her, and holds her up. 

“Enough,” Grace says at last, “oh, Jesus,” swaying as she takes a step back. She all but collapses into her chair, panting. She doesn’t let go of Frankie’s wrist, not yet; instead she tugs, getting her attention. “I love you too,” she says, before she can convince herself she shouldn’t. Frankie’s face blossoms into a joyful smile and Grace sinks back, relieved. After a moment, Frankie sits down too, still smiling. “Well,” Grace manages, catching her breath. “Happy birthday to _me_.”

“Not where you thought you’d be at seventy-five, huh,” Frankie says with a laugh. She sticks her wet fingers in her own mouth, licking them clean like she’d got the chocolate syrup out after all, and Grace trembles at the sight, feels one final zing of arousal travel through her. Where she thought she’d be? Half-naked and post-orgasmic in her kitchen, exposed in the morning sunlight, with this woman who loves her and knows her almost too well? No, it’s not where she thought she’d be at all. She takes Frankie’s hand, twining their fingers together, heedless of the mess. It’s so much better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Telanu, chainofclovers, and ellydash for useful clarifying discussions on various points of this - most of which I subsequently ignored, but hey, it's my birthday: I'm allowed. ;)


End file.
